


Whatever You Need

by aerographie



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Cunnilingus, F/M, Infidelity, Pregnant Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-06
Updated: 2011-02-06
Packaged: 2017-11-03 17:45:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,136
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/384163
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aerographie/pseuds/aerographie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for <a href="http://community.livejournal.com/inception_kink/11005.html?thread=22014461#t22014461">this prompt</a>: "Cobb is away while Mal is PREGNANT and NEEDY. Arthur's always there to help out."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Whatever You Need

They're in the living room, on opposite ends of the same couch. It's late in the evening and Mal's lying back against the armrest, hands resting on the pronounced swell of her belly. Her toes brush lightly against Arthur's thigh as she shifts and turns, trying to find a more comfortable position.

Arthur turns to look at her with the next glancing touch. Her eyes are closed, head tilted to one side. There's a sliver of smooth skin peeking out from where her tank top is riding up.

He looks away. Focuses instead on Phillipa, who—having refused all attempts at getting her to sleep—is sitting on the floor by his feet, playing quietly with some plushy pink blocks.

Arthur watches tiredly as she selects one block at a time, carefully examining it before moving on to the next. He's reminded of her father; she's got the same intent expression Arthur's seen a million times on Dom's face going over data from their experiments with the PASIV device. It makes him smile. And when Phillipa, apparently satisfied with what she's found, proceeds to stuff one corner of the block into her mouth, Arthur can't help but laugh. 

He turns to share his smile with Mal, and is startled to find her looking at him, eyes meeting his in an unsettling gaze.

“I can't take this any more,” Mal says.

“What?”

“I feel like my body hates me.”

“Mal,” Arthur breathes out, sympathetic.

“This baby?” She gestures to her middle. “It hates me. I ache _everywhere_ , Arthur. My feet are like watermelons. My _husband_ ,”—said in the most sarcastic way possible—“is gone, and I just want it to be finished. When will it be finished?”

Dom's not really gone. Well... he _is_ gone, but it's only for a week – meeting up with some fellow researchers in Japan – and Arthur'd been thinking about going too, but Dom had asked him to drop in once in a while, see if Mal needed anything while he was away, taking it for granted that Arthur would stay.

Not that Arthur would have minded. Not that he did mind. One look at Mal's face the first time he dropped by was enough to convince him that _someone_ had to. Mal was in her last trimester and was alternately exhausted and furious with Dom for not being there.

“Can I—can I get you something?” Arthur asks, uncertain. “Some advil, or...?”

Mal groans and lets her head fall back. She's quiet then, looking up at the ceiling with an expression that's half-discomfort, half-annoyance and one hundred percent guaranteed to make Arthur feel like a completely useless piece of shit. He's racking his mind, trying to think of something—anything—he could do to take that expression off her face, when Mal sighs wistfully and says, “I wish Dom were here.”

It should be surprising, given that she's spent the last three days alternately bitching about the “absentee father” of her children, and then pretending Dom doesn't exist, glaring at Arthur whenever she suspects he's so much as _thinking_ of mentioning him.

The silence stretches out.

Arthur hesitates, then says: "I'm here."

Mal turns to look at him almost sadly and Arthur forces himself not to cringe.

He coughs a little, then leans forward, angling himself towards her. “Just—just tell me whatever Dom would do if he was here, and I'll do it.”

Mal snorts and puts an arm over her eyes.

He says, “I'm serious,” and then, more insistently, “Mal.”

She drops her arm then, lets it hang off the side of the sofa. And when Arthur raises his eyebrows, imploring, she rolls her eyes and says, flippant, “Well, usually when it's like this, he just goes down on me.”

Arthur feels all the muscles on his face freeze up. 

Mal looks him straight in the eyes for one long, drawn-out moment, before making an apologetic gesture with her hand, like she's asking him to forget it, to ignore her.

Arthur opens his mouth, and draws in a quick breath, gearing up to say something—though he can't imagine what—when: _THUD_. 

He turns his head sharply to the side and sees Phillipa falling back to the floor. She's obviously just butted her head against the edge of the coffee table.

“Shit,” he says, and he's already on his feet when Phillipa's stunned silence gives way to an anguished howl. 

He grabs her up into his arms, and begins talking to her softly (“Hey, hey. It's alright. You're alright, honey.”) and inwardly berating himself for not watching her better. When he looks helplessly from Phillipa's crumpled, tear-filled face to Mal, who's sitting up now, he's hoping she'll take over. But she just looks at him, tired and upset, and says, “Rub her forehead.”

For some reason that kicks his heart into overdrive, and when Arthur sits down with Phillipa in his lap, rubbing at the reddened spot between her eyes, he's trying to calm himself as much as her. They sit in an awkward silence, interrupted only by the soothing sounds Arthur's trying to make. 

Soon enough, Phillipa quiets, and then her eyelids are drooping and she's leaning against his chest, exhausted. 

“I guess she's finally ready for bed,” he says. It comes out overly loud.

Mal reaches her arms out to take Phillipa, but Arthur stands up before she can. “No, hey, don't worry about it. I'll take her up. You should rest for a while.”

Mal smiles a little. “Thank you,” she says softly.

To be honest, Arthur's glad for something to do. He carries Phillipa upstairs to the nursery, careful not to jostle her out of sleep. He's watched Mal and Dom with their daughter enough times that Arthur barely thinks about it as he lays her down gently in the crib, moves her favourite teddy bear into reaching distance, and turns on the baby monitor. 

All the while, he can't stop replaying Mal's words in his head, the look on her face, almost as if she wanted him to... But, no. No. He tries forcing himself to be reasonable, his mind racing through endless repetitions of _Mal didn't mean anything by it_ , and _Don't even think about it, Arthur_ , until, finally, he finds himself thinking: _Dom doesn't have to know_.

  


* * *

  


Arthur's not the most demonstrative person in the world. He tries to hide it, but he's always been a bit uncomfortable with “normal displays of human affection”, as Mal would say. He doesn't think it's _that_ big a deal, but she and Dom find it hilarious. They've always taken great glee in the little gestures that put Arthur off-balance: hugs for no discernible reason (Mal), a companionable hand palming the back of his neck (Dom) or—the most uncalled-for—fingers running through his hair (both). When they say goodbye, it's not just a _see you later_ or _take care_. It's: _We'll miss you_. It's: _We love you, Arthur._

Arthur usually ducks his head, or rolls his eyes, but he knows what it means. It's not like he's emotionless. He _has emotions_. And he knows that what he feels for the Cobbs goes beyond mere colleagues or friends. The Cobbs are family, and Arthur doesn't want to fuck that up.

So he takes his time coming down the staircase. Listens to the soft static from the baby monitor and the creaking floor boards underfoot as he tries to decide what to do.

He can't say he's never considered it before. Mal's a beautiful woman, and no one could hold a few stray thoughts against him. But it's always been fleeting, harmless. Only idle curiosity.

Faced with it as an actual _possibility_ , though?

He wishes he were a better man, but Arthur's always been honest about his own short-comings, so he can admit, if only to himself: He wants it. 

He _really_ does.

And maybe this is just pure justification, but if Mal's serious? If she _needs_ something here, then Arthur's always going to be the guy tripping over himself to get it for her.

  


* * *

  


Arthur hovers in the doorway. 

“She's sleeping?” Mal asks, staring off into space.

“Like a log.”

The corner of Mal's mouth twitches, a shade of a smile. 

Arthur sets the baby monitor on the coffee table and himself on the couch beside her. He runs his fingers along the arm rest, picking at the weave of the fabric, and tries to pretend that this is a comfortable silence. 

He looks at the ceiling, at Mal's knees, covered by the ruffled hem of her skirt, then down at the floor.

“You weren't joking about your feet; they're massive,” he says, deadpan.

Mal huffs out a breath, incredulous. “Fuck you.”

“No, seriously. Watermelons is about right.”

She shakes her head in annoyance and she's still not looking at him, but things feel a little less tense.

“Here,” he says, motioning impatiently. “Up.”

She finally turns to him, confused.

Arthur pats his lap. “Elevation. It'll help.”

Mal looks doubtful, but complies. She swings herself around, grunting softly, until her legs are propped up on Arthur's. His hands fall naturally onto her ankles, lightly clasping. Cupping her left heel in one hand, Arthur uses the other to rotate her foot. He doesn't really know what he's doing here, but figures _what the hell_? There's no bad in rubbing Mal's feet. 

Mal closes her eyes with a groan, sinks even further into the couch cushions, and Arthur takes it as encouragement. He uses both hands to gently squeeze her foot, mindful of the swelling, and works his way up to her toes. Then he's firmly stroking the underside, taking his time as he presses his thumbs into Mal's arch.

He works without pause. Ridiculously pleased any time Mal sounds out her appreciation. And it's only after he's given her right foot the same treatment, that he begins to—slowly, slowly—slide his hands up her legs.

Arthur's heart is caroming about in his chest, but his eyes are trained on Mal. She's got an arm thrown over her face, and it's driving him _mad_ , being unable to read her reaction. He pauses with his palms on her shins. Waits for her to say something. He'd almost think she was asleep, but Arthur's leaning close and he can hear the way she's breathing. Sucking in air with quiet, stuttering pants.

“Mal,” he rasps out, his throat suddenly dry. She lets out a small, dismayed sound. “Mal, look at me.”

And then she does, wild-eyed and distraught. 

“Arthur. I can't....”

He jerks his hands away.

_Shit._

He's still leaning over her, but Arthur's too disgusted with himself to meet her eyes. _What was he thinking?_ Here's Mal, tired and lonely and vulnerable, and Arthur's such an _asshole_ , that he'd actually convinced himself....

He barely even noticed when Mal sat up, but suddenly there are jittery hands running over his face. And it's not until she finally forces his chin up, ducks her head to meet his eyes, that he hears what she's saying.

“No, no. Arthur, please don't look like that. It's not—,” she breaks off with a frustrated huff. “I—I can't just ask you to....” 

Mal trails off, helpless.

It takes him a moment to understand. And when her words finally sink in, he's honestly floored.

“Mal,” he says, low and disbelieving. “You—You don't have to ask.”

Mal's hands drop to Arthur's shoulders, limp, and for a while neither of them move. They simply sit there, heads tilted close.

Mal's usually all breezy confidence—sharp wit and knowing smiles—but right now she looks embarrassed and unsure. And Arthur can't stand for that. He needs her to know, without a doubt, that she can trust him to take care of her. That he'd do anything for her. So he leans forward, slow enough for Mal to stop him if she wants to, and presses a single tentative kiss to her neck.

Mal exhales, shivery, but doesn't say a word. 

This time Arthur doesn't wait. Just keeps sucking lingering kisses down the curve of her throat, willing her to understand that this isn't about obligation. He wants this.

It's not until he's licking at her collarbone that Mal finally moves, weaving her small fingers through Arthur's hair. She doesn't guide him, though. Just holds on weakly, breathing hard, but it's still leaves Arthur dizzy with relief. 

He bites gently at Mal's shoulder, runs a firm hand over her belly. And when Mal begins to squirm—hips pressing down in tiny, relentless circles—he pushes aside the thin strap of her tank top. Mal's breasts are plump—rounded and full. Arthur cups one in his hand just to feel the warm weight of it. Licks at her tender nipples until they pebble sweetly under the flat of his tongue. 

Before he knows it, Mal's making these little, high-pitched noises. Fretful and wavering. 

When he looks up, she's worrying at her lip, blushing furiously, and it _kills_ him, how embarrassed she looks. As if she's still too ashamed to show him how much she's hurting to be touched.

“You alright?” Arthur asks, breathless, trying to put her at ease. 

He sucks softly at her nipple, flicks his tongue over the peaked tip. “This feel good?”

Mal nods, like she can't help it. 

And when Arthur bites at that same spot, teeth scraping against her sore, sensitized skin, she moans out, feverish.

Then she's wrenching him closer—“Oh. Oh, fuck. Come _on_.”—hard grip on his arms, as she lies back. 

Arthur has to scramble up to keep his balance, knees pushing deep indents into the sofa cushions.

Mal whines and lifts her hips, so Arthur pulls her skirt off in two rough tugs. She's wearing white cotton underwear, and he presses a quick, open-mouthed kiss to the taut skin above them—the lower curve of her belly—before pulling those off too. Then he's palming the insides of her thighs, making room for himself between her legs. 

He exhales hard at that first sight of her. Rosy and flushed, already so slick for him. It hits him like a kick to the chest, the thought that Mal could've been walking around like this all day. Sitting beside him, wet and _wanting_. 

And she wouldn't have said a word if Arthur hadn't pushed, would have just gone without.

Underneath him, Mal starts writhing for more, and Arthur can't make her wait any longer. He lets go of one leg so that he can thumb at her slickness. 

Mal's hips jerk at that first touch. 

“Ah, ah—,” she gasps, over and over again, as he rubs at her clit.

Then he's sliding his thumb down through the sticky mess of her slit, feeling along the edges of where he knows she'd open so pleasingly. He presses in a little, just to feel her cling to him. 

Mal's small and snug inside. All wet, clenching heat, and Arthur's dick _aches_ at the feel of her.

“ _Arthur_... Arthur, _please_.”

He's never heard Mal like this: pleading and desperate. In any other situation, it would have made Arthur homicidal, but right now he's almost glad, because he knows exactly what she needs. He runs a soothing hand down Mal's thigh—“Shh, I've got you”—hugs it closer to his chest as he replaces his thumb with two long fingers. 

He presses into her, deep. Again and again. Mal cries out, dismayed. 

“Don't worry, baby,” he says, fingers steady and blunt. “I've got you.”

When Mal eventually reaches for him, frantic—tugging at his sleeve, his collar—Arthur goes immediately. He pulls out of her, wet fingers smearing everywhere. Spreads a wide, protective hand over her belly, before bending down to lick into her cunt.

Mal grasps his shoulders, the back of his neck. She lets out loud, hiccuping moans as he tongues her, shoving her hips at his face, shameless. Arthur slides his hands under her, easy. Palms her ass, so that he can pull her more firmly against his mouth.

He's so focused on getting her off—so busy rubbing his tongue against her swollen, little clit—that he almost doesn't notice when she stops clutching at him and starts trying to push him away.

Arthur looks up, wiping the back of a hand over his chin. “What?” he says, dazed. “What's wrong?”

Mal reaches under herself, grabs his hand and drags it around until his fingers are poised at her opening. “I'm so close,” she whines.

Arthur understands right away. 

He gives her three, thick fingers. Presses in deep, so that Mal has something to clench around when she finally comes. Squeezing him tight in quick, rippling spasms.

  


* * *

  


After, Mal seems wrung out. Her body pliant and heavy as she comes down.

Arthur gives her one last lick, then rests his head against her thigh.

When he can't wait any longer, he reaches down and gives himself a long, well-deserved squeeze. Rubs himself through the soft wool of his trousers, panting, until Mal paws weakly at his shoulders.

“Come here,” she says, almost a whisper.

Arthur heaves himself up, manoeuvres his body until he's lying down on his side, wedged between Mal and the back of the couch. 

He sighs in relief, finally able to stretch out his limbs. 

And when Mal lazily trails her hand down his shirt and begins unbuckling his belt, Arthur presses his forehead to her shoulder. Lets her jerk him off in quick, efficient tugs.

  


* * *

  


In the morning, they wake to Phillipa's happy gurgling, loud and unmistakeable through the staticky receiver.

Mal turns in his arms, gingerly heaving herself onto her back. Her hair is dishevelled, cheeks flushed warm and creased with sleep. She looks happy.

Arthur watches her, quiet, and Mal touches his face, draws him into a soft kiss, tongue licking at his.

  


* * *

  


Later, by the front door:

“You're not going to show up tomorrow with roses, are you?” Mal says, as Arthur pulls on his jacket. 

She's joking, yeah, but she's also checking, making sure they understand each other.

Arthur laughs. “Well, I'm not _now_.” 

Mal's smile is wide, amused and perhaps a touch relieved. Arthur looks at her, fond. He loves Mal, of course he does—and he's unaccountably, foolishly pleased that he could do this for her—but he's not in love with her.

“Maybe a dildo, though?” he says, stepping out the door. “Some dirty magazines?”

Mal blushes, says “ _Arthur_ ,” with a put-upon groan. 

She pushes at his shoulder, admonishing, and Arthur smiles to himself as he jogs down the front steps. 

Mal waits until he's on the street, rounding the front of his car, before yelling: “Take me out for dinner tonight. I've got a craving for gnocchi.”

It's not a question, but Arthur answers anyway.

“Anything you want.”

 

~ The End ~

**Author's Note:**

> Also posted on my livejournal: [here](http://aerographie.livejournal.com/2637.html)


End file.
